


What's my name again?

by Ironfrost



Series: delusions of grandeur [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Crack, Fluff, M/M, Meta, Names, implied!Courf/Jehan, implied!E/R, modern!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:17:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironfrost/pseuds/Ironfrost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Les Amis l'ABC realises none of them knows their own first names. (Well, no one except Jehan.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's my name again?

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I'm unable to sleep at night. I end up googling "french names for boys", and then I write ten pages about it.
> 
> Beta is, as always, Norwenglish.

It is a quiet day at the Musain. A bit too quiet, when Enjolras thinks about it. He's been able to read several pages of his book uninterrupted, which has not happened since... It has never happened before. He looks up suspiciously, but nothing seems to be out of the ordinary.

Courfeyrac and Feuilly are sitting on Courf's laptop, snickering about something. (“Write 'must like revolutions, flags, and the colour red.'” “Sssshhh, he'll hear!”) Jehan is lying on the floor quietly humming and writing furiously on his arms, occasionally kicking Courfeyrac's chair gently whenever their snickering gets too loud. Joly is browsing one of his huge medical books with an unnerved look, sometimes stopping to measure his own pulse. Bossuet is sitting next to Joly, murmuring reassuring things to him. Grantaire is sitting on the other side of the café, drinking what appears to be coffee, but Enjolras can smell the brandy from where he's sitting. Grantaire meets his eyes, smirking, and holds up his cup to toast him. Enjolras gives him one of his patented disapproving looks, and turns away. Next to Enjolras, Combeferre is deep in thought over his philosophy book, highlighting passages that might come in handy, which in Combeferre's case means highlighting everything. The book is a radiating shade of yellow already. 

Combeferre looks at Enjolras. “Everything okay?” he asks, seeing the expression on Enjolras' face.

“It's so quiet here,” Enjolras answers. 

“Isn't that a good thing?” Combeferre says, turning back to his book.

“I suppose...” Enjolras says, staring out into the middle of nothing. Then he remembers something.

“Where is Bahorel?” he asks a little louder, finally noticing that they are one person short.

Everyone looks around, as if Bahorel will suddenly appear out of nowhere. Most of them shrug.

“Got into a bar fight last night,” Grantaire offers from his corner. “Spent the night in the drunk tank. He'll probably be here soon.” Enjolras just nods, but can't shake the feeling of something being out of place. Grantaire looks worriedly at him, which he of course doesn't notice. 

Enjolras goes back to reading his book, almost managing to forget the uneasiness. But then, a few minutes later...

“Hey Enjolras, what's your first name?” Courfeyrac asks, while Feuilly is typing rapidly at the laptop, now laughing loudly. Enjolras looks up from his book again, sighing.

“Why do you need to know?” he says.

Courfeyrac sends him one of his most brilliant smiles. “No reason at all, my dear leader, my curiosity just got the best of me, that's all.”

Enjolras responds with one of the disapproving looks he usually saves for Grantaire. “What are you two doing?”

“We are not signing you up for online dating, if that's what you think!” Feuilly says while giggling like a school girl, wincing slightly when Courfeyrac punches him in the arm. Enjolras put his book down.

“I'm not even gonna dignify that with an answer, and if you publish that, I will sue you,” he says.

“Oh yeah? On what grounds?” asks Courfeyrac without missing a beat. Enjolras just rolls his eyes. Deciding that this isn't a battle he's willing to take on today, he goes back to his book. Silence recommences, and after a while, even the snickering subsides. 

Feuilly stops typing on the computer, and turns to face Courfeyrac. “Courf, what's your first name?” he asks, looking slightly bewildered. Courfeyrac just laughs. 

“Seriously, you don't remember?” 

But when Feuilly just shakes his head, Courfeyrac is left staring dumbly out into the air. “Wait...what...What IS my first name?” He jumps out of his chair.

“Can anyone tell me what my first name is?” he says, eyes wide. Everyone snickers.

“Courfeyrac, isn't it a little early to be drinking? You're not Grantaire, you know,” Joly says. But Courfeyrac persists.

“I'm serious! I don't know!” He looks around, disappointed by the lack of involvement. “Well, okay, answer this: What are your first names?” 

Everyone stares at him like he's an idiot, before someone finally responds.

“I don't know,” Joly answers. “I've never...thought about it.”

Most of them look up from what they are doing, everyone with the same expression of incredulity and surprise. 

Enjolras puts his book down again, and this time he closes it, realising the silence was too good to last. “Honestly, stop being so paranoid. You all know your first names, you have to. How else have you managed to get apartments, a place at the university, and a drivers licence?”

Combeferre looks at him. “So what is your name?” he asks calmly. Enjolras falters.

“This is ridiculous,” he says, standing up. “We must know, this is...” But whatever he was going to say was lost. Enjolras stares out into the air for a moment. “I don't know,” he finally says, looking bewildered. “Combeferre, I have no idea what my name is!” 

Combeferre looks at Enjolras for a second. “Me neither,” he says.

This causes a slight uproar. People starts searching their pockets for drivers licences, credit cards, anything. 

“Where are my identification cards?” Grantaire huffs, rummaging through his wallet.

“Where is my wallet?” Courfeyrac all but shrieks, emptying his pockets. Everyone is heading towards panicking when Enjolras' leadership instincts kicks in. 

“Okay, everyone calm down!” They all stop what they're doing, looking at him in a loss. “Think about it, does anyone know their first name?”

“I do,” a voice pipes up. Jehan was still lying on the floor, looking as serene as he had done all day. “It's Jean.” 

Enjolras looks at Jean. “Yes. Yes, I knew that. But why do I know your first name and not my own?” 

Joly starts flipping through the pages of his medical book in a state bordering on hysteria. “Memory loss is a very broad symptom, it can literally be any kind of disease,” he says. “But it can't be good. Not good at all.” He lets out a huge sob, and throws himself at Bossuet. “I'm going to die,” he wails.

“No one is going to die,” Combeferre says with a voice full of authority. “Let's not focus on why we don't know, and start focusing on finding it out. Call your parents, google yourself, look up your last names in the phone book.” 

Feuilly snickers. “Phone book, Combeferre, really? Do they still exist?” He is rewarded by disapproving looks from both Combeferre and Enjolras, and turns back to the laptop, muttering something about trying to help. 

With a clear order in mind, everyone sets out trying to find out what their names are. Everyone except Jehan, who for some reason knows his, and helps by calming down a very hysterical Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac clings to Jehan as if he is a lifeline. 

“Call your mother, Courf,” he says, voice low but full of an authority people seem to forget he actually possesses. Courfeyrac only nods, and picks up his phone. After a few seconds, someone picks up on the other end. “Hey, ma...”

 

Feuilly doesn't have any parents, and has never really missed having any until now. Where would he even start? As a result, he just stares dumbly out into the air. 

At this moment, Bahorel comes barging through the door. 

“What a night I've had!” he roars triumphantly, but is only greeted by several looks ranging from annoyance to clear panic. He looks at the scene happening around him.

Joly is sobbing uncontrollably into Bossuet's waistcoat, occasionally hiccoughing words like “alzheimer's”, “terminal”, and “euthanasia”. Bossuet, in turn, is absently patting Joly's back while talking on the phone, his face a perfect depiction of incredulousness, only disrupted by Joly falling off the sofa, dragging him down with him. 

On the other side of the room, Grantaire is still sitting in the corner, almost ripping his wallet to pieces, furiously searching for something. 

Combeferre and Enjolras are sitting in their usual chairs by the fireplace, both talking on the phone in exasperated voices.

“Yes, I know...”  
“Why won't you tell me?”  
“Is that right?”  
“Are you sure?”

Courfeyrac is also on the phone, but he's sitting on the floor with Jehan, who's carefully weaving flowers into Courfeyrac's hair. “That is a truly tragic and unfortunate and very detailed story about how you lost your bracelet at the grocers, ma, but back to my original question...”

And in all of this, Feuilly is sitting quietly at a table with a laptop in front of him, seemingly lost in thought. Bahorel steps over Courfeyrac and Jehan and sits down next to him.

“What is going on here?” he asks, pulling Feuilly away from his thoughts. Feuilly looks at him.

“Bahorel, what is your first name?” he asks. Unsure what that has to do with anything, Bahorel just looks at him questioning. 

“No one here knows what their first name is,” Feuilly explains. “Well, except Jehan. We don't know what happened, one minute we were trying to register Enjolras on an online dating site, and the next Courf freaks out, saying he doesn't remember his own name, and then it sort of escalated.” 

Bahorel, of course, focuses on the most important part of the explanation.

“Enjolras tried online dating?”

Feuilly laughs a little. “Well, he didn't technically know we were doing it. We wanted it to be a surprise.” Bahorel snorts, looks around, and then looks at Feuilly again.

“So why aren't you distressing about this like they are?” he asks. Feuilly shifts a little, clearly uncomfortable.

“Everyone is calling their parents to find out,” he starts, and Bahorel doesn't need him to finish the story. He knows. He reaches over the table and grasps Feuilly's arm. 

“Hey, who needs parents?” he asks, eyes twinkling. “Just call the boys' home you grew up in, they'll have it on record.” Feuilly stares at Bahorel for a moment. Bahorel, who is all muscles and smiles, it's easy to forget how logical he can be from time to time. Feuilly gets out his phone.

“What about you?” he asks, as he dials a number he hasn't needed to dial in years. Bahorel just laughs. “Thank god for the police!” he booms, and picks out a sheet from his coat pocket. 

Being a part of Enjolras' group meant being a part of several riots and protests, and as a result, Feuilly was well aware of that sheet. The sheet you had to sign in order to leave the police station after being detained. It contained all your information and previous incidents which went on your records. God knows they've seen enough of those.

“You're not really supposed to bring those with you,” Feuilly says while waiting for someone to pick up, but the accusation is lost in the softness of his voice. Bahorel just waves it away. 

“They already have several of these on me, I figured it was time I gotWHAT?!” he suddenly roared. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” Feuilly looks at him concerned, but forgets all about it when a woman answers the phone. 

While talking, he sees Bahorel mouthing something with a disappointed look, ending with 'Bahorel', so Feuilly guesses he found out his first name. “So uncool,” Bahorel mutters, and it's Feuilly's time to grab Bahorel's arm reassuringly. “It'll be fine,” he mouths back. Bahorel just smiles.

While all this commotion was going on, Enjolras had finally gotten off the phone, and looked around to see what he had missed while on the phone with his mother, who had to go to the basement and rummage through several old boxes before she found his birth certificate and could reveal his first name. 

Bahorel had finally shown up, waving cheerfully at Enjolras while talking with, or rather, talking to Feuilly, who was on the phone. Jehan and Courfeyrac were still on the floor, but now Jehan was the one speaking on the phone. He meets Courf's eyes. 

“I couldn't take her anymore,” he whispers dramatically. Enjolras rolls his eyes, but laughs. “Did you get Jehan to talk to your mother?” he asks. Courfeyrac nods. “He has more patience than me.” And with that he lies down on the floor, curling up like a cat.

Bossuet has finally managed to drag Joly up from the floor, and is now watching him talking on the phone.

“Do you think this is serious? It can't be good.”  
“Joly, that's not what you were calling to talk about.”  
“I just want to know if this is genetic.”  
“Ask them about your name! Nothing is wrong with you!”  
“Bossuet, I'm obviously dying, shut up!”

Next to him, Combeferre is still on the phone, tone calm and posture relaxed. It's amazing how Combeferre manages to stay calm in a time where even Enjolras is feeling jittery. 

Over in the corner, Grantaire had stopped going through his wallet, and is now lighting a cigarette with all the ease in the world, seemingly carefree. Unable to help himself, Enjolras gets out of his chair and walks over to him, not noticing how Grantaire's eyes light up when he sits down next to him.

“Apollo, to what do I owe the privilege?” Grantaire says, feigning a curtsy. Enjolras huffs.

“Have you found out what your name is?” he asks. Grantaire looks at his phone.

“Not yet. Sent a text to my sister, she's gonna ask my parents.”

“Wouldn't it be easier to just call them yourself?”

Grantaire takes a drag from his cigarette, and lets out a cloud of smoke. “You're right Apollo, that would be easier. But alas, I am not on any sort of speaking terms with my parents. Or, I should say, they aren't speaking to me.” His tone is easy, but his eyes are serious. The air around them is suddenly tense, full of things left unsaid. Enjolras' hand itches to reach out to Grantaire, and Enjolras has no idea where that came from. He looks away, resolving to look at Joly instead, who is apparently dictating a last will and testament to Bossuet. 

“What about you? You found out yet?” Grantaire asks, trying to dissolve the tension.

“Just got off the phone with mother,” he answers.

“And?”

Enjolras looks at Grantaire.

“Julien,” he finally says.

For a second, Grantaire's eyes grow wide. Then he smiles. A real smile, not the sarcastic smirk Enjolras has grown accustomed to. 

“Of course it it,” he says. “Nothing else would suit you.”

They sit in silence after that. Enjolras doesn't feel like getting up right now. Grantaire's phone buzzes. He picks it up, looks at the screen and scoffs before he puts it down again, but doesn't say anything. Enjolras looks at him intently.

“Well?”

“Well what?” Grantaire asks innocently.

“Did she find out?”

“Yeah, she did,” he says.

Enjolras can't justify why, but now he wants to know.

“So what is it?” he says a little too eager.

Grantaire smiles out into the air, and takes another drag of the cigarette.

“Rémy,” he says, while blowing out smoke. Then he looks at Enjolras again.

“Rémy...” Enjolras repeats, trying it out. He smiles. “It suits you,” he says. Grantaire says nothing, but his cheeks redden slightly. 

A loud crash in the middle of the room suddenly has everyone's attention. Apparently Courfeyrac has wrestled Jehan to the floor, and yanks the phone from his hand. “Mother! I called you with a simple question,” he shouts into the phone. “What is my name?!” There was a short silence, then his eyes grows wide. “What do you mean 'you told Jehan twenty minutes ago'?” Jehan blushes profusely, but smiles wickedly at Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac hangs up without saying goodbye, and launches himself at Jehan. “You tell me right this instant, or so help me God!” 

Combeferre hangs up as well, saying a quiet goodbye. 

“Has everyone found out now?” he says, while looking around the room. Courfeyrac and Jehan are still wrestling on the floor, laughing. It's safe to assume they have both forgotten what they were fighting about. Feuilly is sitting next to Bahorel, muttering something about how it doesn't matter how “stupid” it sounds. Bahorel looks deflated. Joly seems to have gotten over his hysteria, but is still measuring his own pulse, and occasionally checking his tongue in the reflection of a spoon. Bossuet is trying very hard not to laugh about it. Everyone confirms that they have.

Combeferre looks around for Enjolras, suddenly realising he's not in his chair. He finds him in the corner, sitting next to Grantaire, both looking like they've been caught murdering someone. Enjolras clears his throat, and goes back to his chair. 

“Who wants to go first?” Enjolras asks the now empty room. No one volunteers. 

Combeferre stands up. “My name is Émile,” he says, tone formal, like he's just met these people he has practically lived with for years. Several of them repeat this information, trying to connect that name to the man. 

“Antoine,” Feuilly says. “It was originally Antoni, but the people at the boys' home changed it.”

“Isn't Antoni Polish?” Grantaire asks. When Feuilly nods, Grantaire just mutters “That explains so much.”

“According to this.....paper,” Bahorel starts, saying it with as much venom as possible. “My name is Sébastien.” 

“There is nothing wrong with that,” Combeferre says. 

“Worst name ever,” Bahorel whines.

“My name is Guillaume,” Bossuet says. “Which explains why my parents kept calling me Guy. I just thought they had forgotten my name.”

“They wouldn't forget your name,” Joly says. 

“That would have been just my luck,” Bossuet says, smiling now.

“Well, not that it matters, since I'm going to die soon,” Joly says, while Bossuet just rolls his eyes at him. “But my name is Tristan.” 

“What a pretty name,” Jehan says, and without further ado he starts scribbling a verse line. With no paper available, and both his arms full of ink, he settles to write on Courfeyrac, who doesn't seem to mind at all.

Combeferre looks at Enjolras. “What about you?”

Enjolras clears his throat again. “Julien,” he says. 

Courfeyrac looks excitedly up at Feuilly, who opens the laptop again, and starts typing.

“And I'm not interested in online dating,” Enjolras continues. But if Feuilly heard that, he makes no notice of it. 

“Rémy,” Grantaire says, lighting another cigarette. Bahorel snorts. Grantaire looks at him.

“What?”

“R,” he just says.

This information seems to dawn on several people, who snicker at the coincidence.

Courfeyrac sits up, careful to not move the arm Jehan is writing on.

“I still don't know my name,” he says. “I spent ages on the phone with my mother for nothing.”

Jehan hums contently. “Not for nothing, “ he says, still writing. “She told me.”

Courfeyrac stares at him intently, like he had forgotten. “Care to share with the rest of the class, Prouvaire?” he says. 

Jehan finishes the verse line, then looks at Courfeyrac.

“Your name is Olivier,” he says. 

(And later, when Courfeyrac is at home, he inspects his arm only to discover that Jehan had not written about Joly, as first suspected, but about a boy named Olivier with soft hair and even softer lips.)

“Wow,” is all Courfeyrac says, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. 

Combeferre looks around. “That's all, isn't it?”

Everyone nods.

“Everyone agreeing to forget what we have just learned?” Bahorel says.

Everyone nods again, more intently. First names only gave them grief, anyway. Who needs it?

 

All of a sudden they hear someone stomping up the stairs. There is only one person who always walks like he's about to march into war.

They hear the familiar voice of Inspector Javert. 

“What are you all still doing here?” 

Enjolras looks at his watch. The Musain closed two hours ago, and they are still here. Everyone shuffles to their feet when he's finally at the top of the stairs.

“You better have a damn good excuse for dawdling,” he says dangerously, and Bahorel has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Javert is always after them, no matter what they are up to. Overstaying their welcome at a café is hardly a police matter. 

“Javert, what is your first name?” Courfeyrac asks.

“What?” Javert barks. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, you see, we were about to leave a while ago, when we realised that none of us knew what our first names are, and we got so caught up in it that we forgot about the time,” Courfeyrac explains.

“And now that I come to think of it, I've never heard your first name,” he continues. 

Everyone is looking at Courfeyrac like he's insane. No one ever talks back to Javert, least of all the amis, whom he has had a grudge against since what feels like the dawn of time.

Javert looks at Courfeyrac like he can't wait to bring him in to police custody, but then his characteristic glare fogs over, and he seems to fall out of it. Come to think of it, what is his first name? 

Then he snaps out of it. “I don't have time for this! Everyone, go home this instant!” he says.

Everyone hurries out, several people patting Courfeyrac on the back. 

“Courf, you're a life saver, I didn't really feel like another night in prison,” Bahorel says.

They all scatter into groups of twos and threes, heading off in different directions. Jehan, Joly, and Bossuet head back to the apartment they share, Bahorel and Feuilly are on their way to the nearest pub, and Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras are about to make their way home, when Enjolras remembers that he left his jacket upstairs.

“Go ahead,” he sighs. “I'll catch up with you.” 

He watches his friends leave, and is about to head up the stairs of the café, when...

“Looking for this?” 

He turns around. Grantaire is leaning against the doorway, cigarette in mouth, and his jacket draped over his arm. 

“Thought you might need it. And you shouldn't go upstairs, Javert is still up there, trying to remember his own name,” he says, smirking. 

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, taking his jacket from Grantaire. Their fingers brush for a second, and whatever Enjolras was going to say, disappears into thin air.

They stand there for a while, Grantaire smoking, and Enjolras not looking at Grantaire.

“You headed home?” Enjolras finally asks, not able to bear the silence anymore.

Grantaire shrugs.

“Might go to the pub with Bahorel and Feuilly,” he says. “Been a rough day.”

“If a rough day is a requirement for you to go to the pub, then you must have a really terrible life,” Enjolras says. Grantaire laughs a little, but says nothing.

“Well, I won't keep you,” Enjolras says. “I should get home, I have classes tomorrow morning.”

Grantaire nods, stumps the rest of his cigarette, and starts walking, but then he turns around again to look at him.

“Good night,” he says.

There's a small silence.

“...Julien.”

 

Enjolras can't help his cheeks going a bit pink. It's cold outside. And that fluttering in his stomach, well, he must be hungry. 

Grantaire smiles, and walks away.

“Good night,” Enjolras murmurs after him. 

“Rémy.”

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't really thought about why they got the names they did, except for the names for Enjolras and Grantaire, which I ruthlessly stole from a head-canon I found online a while back.
> 
> And if anyone is wondering, Javert's first name is Pierre.
> 
> \--
> 
> EDIT: OMG, flawless person drew a scene from this fic: http://annenjolras.tumblr.com/post/47883249391/and-later-when-courfeyrac-is-at-home-he
> 
> And another perfect one actually wrote Jehan's poem: http://flower-sprite.tumblr.com/post/48652650653/jehans-poem-for-whats-my-name-again-by-ironfrost
> 
> I think I'm going to die.


End file.
